The Swing That Sealed It

Some memories carve themselves into your heart not because they are joyful or painful, but because they are both.

May 2013 is a month I will never forget—for all the reasons I wish I could and all the ones I’m grateful I can not.

Just a week before Crescenta Valley High School’s final baseball game of the season, I lost someone who had become like family to me. Yoko wasn’t just my assistant—she was my partner, my protector, and my friend. She was a quiet force in my life, anticipating needs before they were spoken, always steady, always there. Her sudden passing knocked the wind out of me. There was no time to process the loss, no space to grieve—only a hollow ache and the blur of unfinished days.

And then came the game...

It was May 10. Crescenta Valley was facing Arcadia High for a share of the Pacific League title. It was the last game of the regular season. We were down 4–2 in the top of the seventh with two outs. Two runners on. One last chance. And then, my son Ted stepped up to the plate.

I’ve seen him in that stance hundreds of times. The journey to that moment started the day he was born. I bought him his first glove and baseball that day—a hopeful gesture that probably said more about me than it did about him. Before he was old enough to even join an organized team, we were out in the backyard with a bucket of tennis balls, me pitching underhand and him with a toy wood bat, that looked huge in his tiny hands, swinging with all the ferocity a four-year-old could muster.

It wasn’t long before he outgrew the toy gear. He had a quick bat and a sharp eye, even as a little kid. He didn’t just play baseball—he loved it. He studied it. He mimicked batting stances, lived and breathed Cubs baseball like me, and slept with his glove under his pillow.

When I coached him in Little League, I saw his competitive fire up close. He wanted to win, sure—but more than that, he wanted to get better. To do it right. To work harder. To be ready. And he carried that intensity forward, refining it with every season. The instincts sharpened. The arm got stronger. The glove got quieter. The bat got louder. By the time he reached high school, he wasn’t just a good player—he was a leader, a shortstop you built your infield around, a pitcher you trusted in big moments. He was ready for the big stage.

And there he was—on the biggest stage of his high school career.

He took the first pitch. Then came the second.

Crack.

The sound was unmistakable. The ball launched deep into the Arcadia night and cleared the left-field fence—a three-run home run to give CV a 5–4 lead and ultimately the Pacific League crown. The stadium erupted. His teammates mobbed him at the plate. He rounded the bases with a joy so pure, it broke my heart wide open.

I stood there, still, trying to take it in—so proud I could barely breathe, so heartbroken I could barely speak. Another parent turned to me, eyes wide, and asked, “How did that feel? Watching your son do that?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truth is, I didn’t know how to answer. How do you describe something like that—something that feels like it belongs to a dream or a movie? So, I just said the first thing that came to mind: “Wow. Just… wow.”

It wasn’t eloquent, but it was honest. It was all I could manage with my heart caught between bursting with joy and breaking with grief.

Because I wasn’t alone in following Ted’s baseball career. Yoko followed it just as closely. She asked about his games before I could bring them up. She celebrated his wins, checked on his bumps and bruises, and teased me for pacing too much in the stands. She believed in him—always. And she would have loved that moment. She would’ve printed out the box score and saved the clipping. She would’ve told me, “He’s going to do something special.”

And she was right.

Earlier that spring, Ted had thrown a no-hitter against Loyola High—striking out nine and scoring the game’s only run himself. He finished the season hitting .408 in league play and was later named the Pacific League’s Most Valuable Player. A few weeks after that game, he committed to continuing his baseball journey at Loyola Marymount University—his dream to play Division I college baseball, so LMU was a perfect place for the next chapter of his story.

It’s impossible to capture what it meant to witness that swing against Arcadia—not just because of what it meant for the team or the title, but because of everything it carried: the hours in the cages, the missed dinners, the long drives, the small-town hopes. And yes, the grief.

The joy of that home run will always live beside the sorrow of losing Yoko. That’s how life works sometimes—grace and loss in the same breath. That week taught me again how to hold both.

If you’d like to see the moment that still gives me chills, here it is:

And if you’d like to know more about Yoko and the extraordinary soul she was, I wrote about her here: 🕊 In a Sad, Awful, Terrible Way...

Happy Birthday!

Sometimes, I am amazed that I actually continue to learn day in and day out. You would think that as I approach another year and another birthday, in the middle of my life, I would have learned all that I need to know and would be applying and imparting that knowledge.

But I am continually surprised by the fact that there are more nuanced meanings to the things that I thought I had already learned... For instance, I remember on my 16th birthday, my Mom gave me a hand-made paperweight with Raymond Duncan's quote:

"The best substitute for experience is being sixteen."

At first, I took this as a compliment; as a sixteen-year-old, I believed I should and could do anything. The meaning of those words was clear to me as a young adult... Go forth and do, don't let anything or anyone hold you back.

Then, several years ago, my oldest daughter turned thirteen, and for the first time, I realized the extended meaning of Duncan's words. Teenagers think they know everything (at least mine do) and can do anything. I know that I felt that way. But over time, experience showed me that I clearly didn't know everything, and some things should not be done (under any circumstance).

But that kind of experience only comes through trial (and error). So how the heck can you get a teenager to understand that? The answer is you can't. So the trick for me, as a parent, is to give my children the benefit of my experience without forcing it on them. Give them the space, time, and cushion to learn things independently- this is the magical parenting trick. And if I am being quite honest, I still don't have a handle on how to do this. With my two oldest kids in high school and my youngest just entering her own pre-teen years, we have too many fights because I haven't quite learned how to get them to accept some of my hard-earned experience, nor have I learned to just let go and keep my experience to myself.

However, I'm sure it made my Mom smile when I told her I "figured out" Duncan's words. I hope my epiphany gave her some satisfaction, knowing that by age 40, I had learned a lesson she started teaching me at 16. I only hope I am as successful with my kids.

Which brings me to my thoughts today, the anniversary of my birth. I've spent some time reflecting on the first half (or so) of my life this week. In particular, thinking about what the second half will have in store for me. I don't think this is uncommon for someone to do on his or her birthday. It is like a mid-year performance review at work.

But each time I start to reflect, I remember reading and discussing the words of Walt Whitman's poem, Youth, Day, Old Age and Night, in my high school American Lit class:

Youth, large, lusty, loving--youth full of grace,
force, fascination,
Do you know that Old Age may come after you with
equal grace, force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid--day of the immense
sun, action, ambition, laughter,
The Night follows close with millions of suns, and
sleep and the restoring darkness.

I am sure that the common interpretation of every student in my class was that Whitman's poem was an admonition to us (young people). What I remember from that American Literature lecture was the admonishment that "you won't always be young and that old age and death are approaching." The takeaway was to enjoy your fleeting youth because it doesn't last.

I know that when young people act selfishly, their "fleeting youth" is part of the reason. But that doesn't make the actions any less selfish. I worry that if the selfishness goes unchecked, it will grow into a pattern that will continue throughout their lives. At the same time, I can see that I was (on occasion) selfish, and I turned out okay (at least according to most).

So, while I do want my children to enjoy their youth, I also want them to learn from the mistakes I've already made. I do understand and recognize, in the logical part of my brain, that they need to make their own mistakes. But when they make choices that seem to be selfish to me, this paradigm of learning from experience does seem like a no-win situation.

What I'd really like my kids to learn is something that I know now, twenty-five plus years from high school, I know to be true: Youth is certainly fleeting, but life isn't always a zero-sum game. Most things are not a "me or them" or a "right or wrong" exercise. When I first read Whitman's words, I got it wrong. Youth is not at the expense of Age, nor vice-versa.

Just as I realized there is more than one meaning to Duncan’s experience quote, I know that Whitman's words have a more nuanced meaning...

There is beauty, strength, and wonder yet to be found for the young and the old. Whitman was not lamenting aging; he wasn't saying that night and age are stalking us, lying in wait to steal our grace, force, and fascination. His words have a deeper meaning. As we grow older and more experienced, all of these things can be found in abundance, in ourselves, in our children, in those we love, and who surround us -- each of them a bright star in the darkness of our individual nights.

As I blow out the candles on my birthday cake this year, my wish will be two-fold. First, I will wish to find better ways to impart my newfound wisdom to my kids (in ways that they won't see as lessons). Second, and more importantly, I will wish that the individual action, ambition, and laughter of every "sun" in my night sky not only measure up but burn so brightly that they exceed the grace, force, and fascination of the brightest day.